Dreamscapes
by shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod
Summary: Or the five times Steve helped the Avengers with their nightmares, and the one time they helped him. He is always there to help them in the aftermath of their demons with soothing words, light jokes, and support. Little do they realize that he has demons as well, but no one to help him with them. Romanogers if you squint.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first attempt at a 5+1 story, so just hoping that it goes well :) The chapters will vary in length depending on who Steve is helping, and there will be 6 in total. The first chapter is Clint, and the next one will be either Bruce or Thor. I will try to update once a day or every two days. Hope you all enjoy and feel free to leave a review!**

 **I don't own any of the characters, as I am not Marvel.**

* * *

 **Clint**

It started with a creak. It _always_ started with some small amount of white noise. A squeaky door, the air conditioning rumbling, something that would trigger a terrible memory and jolt Clint from his sleep, knife from under the mattress already in hand. After a minute of harsh breathing and double checking the windows, doors, and vents for intruders, Clint would set the knife down and sit on the side of the bed with his head in his hands. It was only after checking his clock to find that it was some ungodly hour in the morning that he would enter the elevator and ride down to the communal floor.

By the time the coffee was brewed and a mug was in his hand, Clint was shaking so badly that he had to put the cup down in fear of dropping it. Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself and grasping the edges of the counter, he would repeat his calm-down mantra in his head.

 _"You are not in combat. You are in the Avengers Tower, the safest place probably in the galaxy. Nothing can hurt you. This is not Budapest."_

He would say it over and over in his head, mumbling out the words under his breath, until he regained control of his body and was able to pick up the mug again.

Of course, what he didn't account for was the fact that he was being watched. Clint could feel their eyes on his back right after he had calmed down. Whipping around and poised to throw the mug, he stopped just short of letting the ceramic fly when he saw Steve standing in the kitchen.

In surprise, Clint dropped the mug, which shattered into hundreds of pieces on the floor. More white noise. Things crashing, breaking. A bomb barreling into a building and smashing all of the windows, sending debris into the streets surrounding it.

 _"It's a mug, get ahold of yourself, Barton,"_ he chided himself and looked to Steve with an embarrassed look on his features. "Shi-" Clint started.

"Language," Steve finished, cracking a smile at the running joke the team had. He grabbed a broom and a dustpan from the closet and swept up the shards, dumping them into the trash as he did.

Clint felt a small pain in his foot and looked down to see a small piece of the mug imbedded in his flesh. As he reached down to take it out, the memory of the explosion his him again. The one where he was left picking bone shards from his friend out of his hands.

"Clint, you okay?" Steve asked worriedly, looking at the way Clint gazed at the mug piece in his hand before tossing it into the sink.

" 'M fine," the archer muttered, grabbing another mug and pouring himself some of the steaming dark brew.

"And I'm a showgirl." The captain paused at his response before adding, "well, that's partly true…"

Clint chuckled and took a sip of the coffee. It filled him with warmth and drove the demons away. At least for now.

"Why are you up this early?" Steve questioned.

"Couldn't sleep," was his short and honest reply.

"Nightmares?" Clint nodded, the only response that he had to give; the only one that felt right and true. "Those can be a pain," he said, not knowing what other way to put it.

"No, no, they're dandy. I leave my door open sometimes just waiting for them to walk in." Clint's voice was dripping sarcasm as he stared into his mug and the tiny ripples in the liquid as his hand began to shake again. "By them, I mean the people. And the blood. And the explosions. I can still hear them ringing in my ears. The bombs, the shrapnel, the screaming civilians." Clint's voice teetered off into silence and he set the mug down. Images of the white hot flames danced in his mind. The shrill, piercing screams of a woman trapped under the rubble. The crying of a child.

All because he had failed to draw their fire. Innocent lives had perished because he had not made the rendezvous in time. More blood on his hands. More crimson to sink into the lines on his skin, impossible for him to wash out.

 _"Clint!"_ He heard someone calling his name, from inside the building as he looked up towards the flames charring everything inside. Pieces began to fall away, littering the streets. Screaming everywhere. The other agent that had been with him was too close to the blast. He now lay in a crumpled pile on the sidewalk, his shattered bones evident.

Clint absent-mindedly picked out a piece of shrapnel from his hand, hoping that it was wood, or cement, or metal. But it was white and chalky. Bone.

His mind reeled as he fought back the bile that rose in his throat. The screaming continued as people got on their phones to cal for emergency, for fire trucks, for any kind of help. Anything to help the poor people, the dead and dying, still trapped in the collapsing building.

But he couldn't do anything. He didn't watch, he didn't help, he didn't stand there and gape at what he had caused.

No, he was a coward. They were catching up to him and the Quinjet was a few blocks away. He did what he had to do in order to get back in one piece. A decision that still haunted him years later. He ran. Away from the flames. Away from the screaming. Away from the mass that used to be an agent. He simply ran _away._ His feet pounded on the pavement and he concentrated on the objective ahead.

Get to the Quinjet. Get medical attention for the nasty wound in his side. Everything else would have to wait.

"Clint!" The voice jarred him from the memory and he shook his head to see Steve shaking his shoulders. The soldier's icy blue eyes were set with distress. "You're okay, you're safe. Not in combat. You're here, with me, in this overly furnished kitchen that none of us really use." He added the last part lightly, hoping to make Clint crack a smile.

Under other circumstances, it would have worked, but the blood had drained from Clint's face and the most that he could do was utter a half-hearted smirk.

"You okay?" His eyes searched the archer's unsteady face, whose gaze was still turned to the floor.

Clint took a deep sigh. "I think we both know the answer to that question. You don't have to play captain psychiatrist," he replied, trying to get the worried look off of Steve's face. "Bruce told me about the time Tony tried to tell him his life story. He's not that kind of doctor, but he plays a better psychiatrist than you."

"Well, it helps to have had some experience. As you can tell, I have none."

He removed his hand from Clint's shoulder with a small smile, dropping the hand down by his side. Seeing that Clint had control and didn't seem to be going back into a memory, Steve turned to the couches, where his sketchbooks lay.

If Clint had walked over and felt the pencils, they would have still been warm from Steve's hand that had been drawing all night. His tea, long forgotten, was cold in the cup on the table. The flat part of the captain's right hand was stained silver from the graphite. However, Clint didn't notice these things. He stayed in the kitchen, watching as Steve walked over to the sitting area.

"Hey, Cap?" he said sheepishly.

Steve turned, a questioning look on his face.

"Thanks," was the archer's reply.

"Any time." The captain gave a small smile and sat down on the couch, pulling the sketchpad on top of him. They lapsed into silence; Steve drawing, and Clint drinking his coffee as the sun began to light up the city.


	2. Thor

**Next chapter! This one is slightly shorter than the previous one, but I didn't know what else to add. Huge thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, and followed! It means a lot :)**

 **Just to clarify, many of these one shots will be Steve helping his team in the aftermath of a nightmare; calming them down or giving some sort of a pep-talk.**

 **Thanks for reading and I hope that you all like this next chapter! Chapter 3: Bruce will be posted on Monday most likely.**

 **I don't own the Avengers.**

* * *

 **Thor**

He saw the blade go in; he saw the blade come out the other side. He saw Loki's pained expression, and could almost feel his agony. He saw the monster disappear. He saw Loki dying on the black, sandy ground. He felt Loki's heart stop beneath his fingertips.

Odinson, demigod, wielder of Mjolnir, heir to the Asgardian throne. Death did not care about his titles, his accomplishments, or the pain that he would feel. Death stole his brother from him, and he was powerless to do anything about it.

The memory ended abruptly when he threw his hammer across the room, landing with a thud into the kitchen wall. Still dazed from the dream and how he had managed to throw the hammer at his demons, Thor sat up from where he had fallen asleep on the couch. He called his hammer back and the cool leather handle flew into his hand before he placed it next to his feet, standing up as he did so.

The image of Loki's corpse was burned into his mind, and no amount of rubbing his eyes would rid him of the nightmares that came for him like black wisps in the night. Instead of focusing on the lifelessness that Loki's face had help, Thor turned his attention to the kitchen. A large hole had rained chunks of drywall onto the granite counter. Tony would not be happy.

The elevator dinged, surprising him. There was no reason for any team member to be up at this time of night, except maybe Tony, but he was alway down in the lab tinkering.

Thor stalked up to it slowly, ready for a fight. However, when the doors opened, it revealed the Captain. Clad in sweatpants and a white tank top, he looked ready for bed, if not for the metal shield on his arm.

"You okay? I heard a crash and thought that someone had broken in," he said tiredly. Dark bags hung from under his eyes, but he still managed to look alert. The tower's security was the highest in the state, so there was little chance of anyone getting in, but the team had learned to never be too careful.

"Nay, there are no villains afoot other than the ones that play with my mind." Thor's eyes drifted down to Steve's feet, where his shield had just been set against the wall. Tennis shoes were half hidden underneath the bulky pants, but it was easy for Thor to pick them out. A sheen of sweat covered Steve's face and the collar of his shirt as well. "You have been running, Steven?"

Steve sighed and nodded. "Yeah, I actually got back a few minutes before I heard the crash. It's not hard to hear a huge noise in the middle of the night only one floor down."

"Why this early? It is cold outside before the sun rises."

"I like to get a run in before the cars and the pedestrians come out," Steve said quietly. Thor noticed the lie easily; Steve was never good at them, but passed it off because it was not his place to ask further questions. "Nightmares?"

Steve's question was laid out between the two Avengers, and he gave time for Thor to nod and respond.

"Loki was killed a mere day before the convergence. I was powerless to do anything to prevent it. All of my strength, my power, and I was incapable of keeping him alive."

Steve thought over Thor's response carefully before replying. "I felt like that a lot during the war. Sure, I helped, but I could only do so much. I saved people, but there were always the soldiers that would die before I could get to them. Sometimes, I was there to see them crumple to the ground, but I couldn't do anything about it."

"Steven, why are you telling me this?" Thor questioned.

"Because no matter how much power you possess, there will always be the few the you can't save. Some hurt more than others." He added the last part plainly as his voice dropped off. Thor could practically see the memory playing in Steve's head. It was obvious that it did not end well. However, he raised his eyes after a moment and continued speaking. "Loki didn't die in vain. From what you have said, he destroyed the monster and made it possible for you and Jane to escape. Chances are that he knew the price he may have had to pay. And this is Loki we're talking about. I doubt he's gone for good."

Thor clapped a hand onto Steve's shoulder. "Thank you, Lord Steven."

"I told you, it's just Steve. I'm only a man, and there is no need to thank me," he replied sheepishly.

"You are a warrior, a true, courageous, and honest one at that, earning you the title of Lord. However, I will obey your wishes."

Steve cracked a smirk, eyes drifting into the kitchen where the hole in the wall stood out against the white paint. "When you tell Tony about this, be sure to do it outside the lab, when he's had sleep. Bring your hammer just in case."

Thor chuckled. "Thank you, Steve."

The super soldier picked up his shield and walked into the elevator. "Night, Thor." they exchanged smiles as the door closed and Thor was left in silence. It was amazing to him how a simple conversation could clear the demons from his mind, even if it was only for one night. Steve just had that way about him; calm and caring, always trying to help in any way that he could.

His floor and his mind were both quiet for the rest of the night.


	3. Bruce

**Thank you guys for all of the feedback :) This chapter is slightly longer, but I am iffy about it. I feel as though I don't write Bruce very well, but here is my best attempt! Tony is the next chapter and will most likely be posted on Wednesday. Thank you all for reading and please leave a review if you enjoyed!**

 **I don't own the Avengers. Who would even think that in the first place?**

* * *

 **Bruce**

The soft melodies of the opera music began to crescendo, growing louder and louder until they hit a peak and began descending again. His breaths were even and silent, but his mind was busy. A feeling of weightlessness was draped over him as they flew through the sky in the Quinjet, bound for the tower. It was just Steve and him; Natasha had to be transported in a med carrier after she took several bullets to the abdomen and legs.

But it was his fault. If he hadn't hulked out, he would have been able to give her more assistance on the battlefield. Then she would've had less bleeding and Bruce could rest easier.

During the fight, he heard her get hit over the comms. The cry of pain was quickly silenced as she bit it off and continued to fight through. Half a minute later, they heard her hit the ground. Steve ordered him to get her back to the jet while he freed the prisoners, so Bruce ran out into the crossfire.

Stuck behind a brick wall with the enemy firing at her, Bruce found Natasha reloading her gun, bleeding from multiple wounds. It took some strong convincing to make her stop for a moment and have him help her while the bullets were still raining down. The gun clattered to the ground as the pain began to register. Natasha's shaking hands covered the wounds that Bruce wasn't working on.

Halfway through patching her up, a bullet scraped by his arm. Usually, it would have been okay, but the stress and just the bullets in general had aggravated him. His eyes turned green and he could feel his chest begin to heave.

Looking down at the ground below Natasha, how it was more red than brown, and the way that her eyes kept fluttering open and closed, he knew that she needed him. But he was beyond anything now. His clothes grew and tore as he became taller than some of the saplings in the small forest.

He killed them, all of them. For hurting him, for taking prisoners, but mostly for injuring Natasha. It wasn't until he calmed down and looked at the broken bodies around him that he realized just what he had done. When Steve ran out of the compound being followed by the hostages, he lay eyes on the bodies and then to Natasha, and called for med evac, as if nothing had happened.

It was Steve that gingerly picked up Natasha's limp body, whispering soft words into her ear, and loaded her into the medical jet. It was Steve that yelled at them to leave. But it was Bruce that couldn't keep his eyes off of the corpses on the ground.

The freed prisoners and Natasha were taken away, leaving Steve to help walk Bruce back to the Quinjet. As soon as they got back, he collapsed in a heap on the floor and pulled his headphones on, desperate to try and forget what he had just done.

But it could never be forgotten. He remembered crushing them, as if they were simple twigs. He was in control, and yet, he wasn't. He was just so _angry_ at everything, at everyone, and they just happened to be the first people that he saw to take his rage out on. The sounds of the broken bones haunted him, they echoed in his brain, a hellish reminder of the lives that he had taken.

But it wasn't only the people, the places haunted him as well. All of the damage, the destruction, the rubble, all because he couldn't control him emotions. People looked to him, even in normal form, with terror in their eyes. As if he could hulk-out at any moment and destroy another city block. They had reason to be scared, and that haunted him the most of all.

Before he knew it, someone was shaking him awake. Bruce opened his eyes to find Steve looking at him. It was the dead of night outside, and Steve really should've been sleeping, but Bruce couldn't find the strength to ask why the soldier was up. The Quinjet cut through the air seamlessly, on autopilot, allowing both Steve and Bruce to rest.

"Bruce, you okay? You were mumbling and shaking in your sleep."

He shook his head. "The agents, outside. Are they dead?"

Steve took a deep breath in, hoping not to answer, but that was answer enough. "Some of them-" he started.

Bruce just buried his head in his hands. "So now, not only did I kill people, I also let Natasha get hurt."

"You protected her against those men. You did what you had to do in order to make sure that she didn't get hurt further," Steve explained.

"I could've incapacitated them, not just crushed them!" His tone of voice raised and he had to take a minute to calm down before he could continue. "If I hadn't let the other guy out, I could have helped her, and she wouldn't be in as bad of shape right now. I could have bandaged her and stopped the bleeding sooner. I could have-"

"You also could have let her die by not getting there in time," Steve finished. "but you didn't, did you? You helped her just enough so that she will be able to survive, then you eliminated what had hurt her in the first place. You know as well as I do that if Fury had gotten to those men after we brought them in, they would have faced a much worse fate. You did them a favor by making it swift."

"But everything I do while in that state…I hurt something. I destroy something. It's nothing but bad."

Steve sat down next to Bruce and looked him in the eyes. "Tell that to New York. Sure, you demolished some architecture, sure the roads got damaged, but you saved _innocent lives_. Because of you, we were able to take down some of those giant flying slug, turtle aliens. You know that without your help, the death count would have been much worse."

"You guys were handling it pretty well before I even got there. Not to mention, I endangered everyone's lives on the helicarrier. If not for you and Stark, it would have gone down. I didn't help there." Bruce took a second to calm himself again. There was no way that he was letting the other guy out two times in one day. "I can still picture Natasha's face when I changed. It was…anything like I have ever seen from her. She was scared. And she had reason to be."

"People are going to be scared of you, and you can't change that. People fear _all_ of us. But more people look up to us with admiration and respect than they do in fear. Those hundred or so bad guys that you kill don't mean anything compared to the thousands of innocent lives that you end up saving."

Bruce took a second to let Steve's words sank in. Then it hit him, just how _right_ the soldier was. Even though his guilt was the first thing on his mind, the knowledge that he was important and helped people was always there. He looked up to Steve and gave a small smile. "When did you become so good at giving a pep-talk?"

"Short answer, I never knew I did," Steve chuckled. "I just try to keep everyone from getting down on themselves."

"You're pretty damn good at it, Rogers."

"So I've heard." With that, Steve stood up and went back into the pilot's chair. Checking the status of the flight, he then relayed back to Bruce, "should be back at the Tower in a few hours. Try to get some shut-eye."

"Shouldn't you too, Steve? You look tired." Even from his place on the floor, Bruce could see Steve's shoulders sag slightly and the way his eyes drooped.

"I've got to keep watch, make sure everything runs smoothly. I'll wake you up if we get any news on Nat."

"Yes, sir." The last thing he heard before pulling on his headphones was Steve's soft laughter echoing throughout the Quinjet.


	4. Tony

**Next chapter, Tony! It** **'s a little bit longer than the others. I have never had a panic attack before, so I could be portraying it completely wrong, so sorry if I mess it up. Warning that I do attempt to write one midway through the chapter.**

 **I don** **'t think I've mentioned this before, but the story takes place in-between CA:TWS and A:AoU. Anyways, thank you all for reading and I hope that you like it :)**

 **I don** **'t own the Avengers or any rights to them.**

* * *

 **Tony**

It was movie night at the Avengers Tower. The movie was _Star Wars_ , a spectacular film that Steve had not yet seen. Tony laughed at loud at the confused look that had crossed Steve's face when he asked, "they made six of these things?"

All in all, he had enjoyed the movie and was asleep on the couch. Everyone else had gone to their respective rooms for bed. Just as Tony had started to get up to go down to the lab, he realized how tired he was. And how comfortable the couch was beneath his tired muscles.

And he made the mistake of falling asleep on the couch with someone else in the room.

* * *

It started with the silence. It always started with that. The deafening silence outside his suit. His call to Pepper fizzled out at the same time the oxygen did. He could feel the lights go out, and knew that he would soon follow. His suit detached from the missile and he began to float through space. Weightless and incapable of doing anything. Powerless. Helpless. The nuke headed straight into the alien warship that strangely resembled an octopus with less arms.

Tens of those giant flying turtles covered up the blackness of space, headed down towards the wormhole.

 _"Not on my watch,"_ he said inside his head as the missile reached its target. It exploded in silence as well, a giant, fiery ball engulfing the entire ship. His mission was done.

Feeling lightheaded, his eyes began to close as his lungs struggled to get air that was not present. The stars and the space began to blink out as darkness danced at the corners of his vision, edging its way along his line of sight until the only thing he saw was blackness. He could feel himself falling. He could feel his heart beginning to give out. He could feel the wormhole beginning to suck him back in. He could feel—

He felt nothing.

* * *

He always awoke in shock, gasping for breath that would not come into his heaving lungs. But this time, someone was in the room with him.

 _"Crap,"_ was the word echoing in his brain once Tony realized how loud his strangled breathing was. And the fact that this time, he was not alone to deal with the problem.

In an instant, the soldier was at his side, eyes wild and worried as he looked at the choking inventor. "Tony! What's wrong?"

"C-can-t," he wheezed out, trying to get the images out of his mind. The falling, the explosion, the lifelessness that had imbedded itself in his bones. "Br-eea." His voice began to falter as he tried to sit up, to move, to do anything. But he felt as if lead were filling his veins, weighing him down.

"Choking, or something else?" Steve asked. His eyes were stern and set.

Tony shook his head as he continued to try and regain his breath. It simply wouldn't come. All of the aliens, about to descend onto the planet filled with innocent people. He knew he couldn't let it happen.

But the lack of air. The darkness that surrounded him. The infinite universe that surrounded the darkness. He was so small, so miniscule. And his lungs were running out of oxygen. It was cold. So cold inside the metal suit in the dead of space.

"Tony, you need to breathe," Steve commanded.

In a normal situation, Tony would've laughed. Because he couldn't breathe. Nothing Steve said would be able to change that. If he could breathe, he wouldn't be having this problem. "F—all—ing," was what he ended up choking out.

He could see the wheels turning in Steve's mind and then the light bulb that went off when he found the event.

"I want you to look around the room slowly." The soldier's voice was calm, so unlike how Tony felt at the moment. Everything was tense as his chest still struggled to get in enough air. But he did as the captain asked and looked around the room.

The television was on, as it had not been before, so Steve must have been watching it. The living room was neat and tidy, with large windows overlooking the city. His eyes turned back to Steve in confusion.

"I see a normal living room, as you do. You know what I don't see?" Tony shook his head. "I don't see space. Or aliens. Or an explosion. Look again."

The room came back into focus as Tony tried to calm himself. He was safe, he was in the Tower, and nothing was wrong. But he still felt off.

"There is solid ground under that horribly soft couch. You built this place yourself, nothing can harm you in it. This is not the battle, Tony. You are alive. You are okay."

Steve's words replayed in his head over and over until he began murmuring it to himself. "I—'m—okay. I am 'kay." With a shuddering breath, he closed his eyes and imagined the memory fragmenting until he could not see the picture any more. In and out. In and out. Gradually his breathing became more steady and the heat in his face began to die down.

"JARVIS would never let anything happen to you. Our team would never let you go on our watch." Steve's voice rolled over him, soothed him.

"I am okay," he finally whispered.

His eyes opened and Steve was still sitting beside the couch, poised as if ready to strike, but the look of terror was gone from his eyes.

"You alright?"

Tony nodded his head slowly, as if not to disturb another memory. "I usually have a better handle on them…"

"So they happen often?" Steve pushed.

In response, Tony sighed. "More than I'd like to admit, yes. But there's usually no one around to offer assistance. It ends and I go on with my life."

"Tony, why don't you ever ask for help? You have a team here that is willing to die for you."

"I've got JARVIS. He knows exactly what to do and simply coaches me through it. Like I said, it ends and I go back to tinkering." Tony sighed as he sat up, his body still weak from the attack.

"That's not healthy Tony. It's a big deal, whether or not you choose to make it one. We can help you, if you would just tell us," Steve countered.

"Was being in the ice for seventy years good for your health?" Tony snapped. Immediately he wanted to take the sentence back. He watched as Steve's eyes fell and he almost started to shiver. He looked…defeated. "Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean for it to come out like that," he apologized.

"It's fine," Steve whispered before picking his head back up and pushing down whatever he was feeling inside.

"Look. You're the guy that never bleeds on anyone. No one ever knows what's going on in your head either. So what if maybe I admire that about you? I can make an army of iron suits, but I can't control my own memories and how I breathe? That just doesn't sound right."

Steve shook his head as a small smile crossed his face. "You'd be surprised at how wrong you are. Of course it sounds right. Everything you've done and seen, it has effect on you. All of us are stricken with some kind of memories from the past, and there's no escaping it. But you have to learn to lean on those that understand. You can't fight it all by yourself."

Tony snapped his fingers and pointed at Steve, causing him to look confused. "There it is. There's the guy that my dad wouldn't shut up about. Not the annoying one giving orders all the time, or arguing with me on absolutely everything, but the guy that gives the best speeches. You should become a motivational speaker, Cap. I can make it happen."

Steve chuckled and shook his head. "I'm good at being an Avenger. If I wasn't, I'd probably just re-enlist in the army. It's the only thing I've ever really been good at."

Stark shrugged his shoulders and turned to the television, which was silently showing some advertisement for a car. "Why TV right now? It's like two in the morning."

"Only time I can watch old war movies without anyone laughing at me," Steve admitted. "Don't tell Barton."

"I think I can let this one slide, Cap, for tonight. What are we watching?" Tony knew that he wasn't going to get any more sleep that night. Even if he did, it wouldn't be good in the slightest.

"Sh, it's back on," Steve replied as he climbed back into the chair.

Tony never uttered a thank-you; it was never needed. Steve knew what Tony meant when he stayed to watch the movie. And then the one following it. So when the team woke up in the morning and walked down to see Tony and Steve watching old war movies, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, Tony defended Steve.

"They're actually decent movies," he said as the rest of the team laughed under their breath and made breakfast. Steve had helped him last night. And Tony would be damned if he never helped Steve back.

* * *

 **Next chapter will be Natasha. I have orientation on Thursday, so the next chapter will be posted on Saturday. The +1 chapter following Natasha will be of Steve.**

 **Hint: I have been including little amounts of** **'foreshadowing' for the Steve chapter in every chapter so far. Can you figure out what they are?**

 **Once again, thank you all, and please review if you enjoyed!**


	5. Natahsa Part 1

**Okay, first of all, sorry this is a day late. I was at my grandparents all day yesterday with no wifi or time to write, which is why I am posting early this morning. Secondly, I decided to split this chapter into two parts, the second of which will be posted tomorrow. I just thought that leaving it here would be better. Sorry for any OOCness on Natasha's part, I try my best.**

 **Thanks for reading and I hope that you all enjoy!**

 **By the way, who saw the reports about the content of the Civil War teaser trailer and is excited to finally see some footage?!**

 **I don't own Marvel or anything related to it.**

* * *

 **Natasha**

The motel room that they were stationed at for the night smelled distinctly of smoke and mold. There was one working light in the hallway above the door, and it flickered on and off. A tiny bathroom with a faucet that leaked water, plinking into the metal pipes. The carpet that covered the floor was more brown than color, but at least the bed had sheets.

Steve insisted, like a gentleman, that she take the bed. Of course she tried to refuse, but Steve had that look in his eyes. The one that he was not budging on the subject. So Natasha gave in and took the bed, throwing a pillow on top of Steve and ordering him in the same tone to take it. He returned a gentle smile and placed the pillow behind his head. In minutes, he appeared to be asleep.

Natasha took a moment to look at him. His face was more relaxed in sleep; he always looked so tired that she wondered how much he actually slept. Bags constantly hung from his eyes, and his gaze would often wander far from what was happening around him. But he kept pushing, kept fighting. And if that didn't instill some sense of respect for a person, Natasha didn't know what else would.

His Captain America uniform was grimy from the battle and several cuts showed through the fabric, but they could get that fixed tomorrow at extraction. The blue fabric was stained a brownish red in certain areas, but no more damage that Natasha herself had faced. In the morning, she knew the pale sheets beneath her would have some red spots on them from the marks on her arms.

Leaning back against the pillows, she was almost surprised at how easy it was for sleep to claim her. It wasn't until later that she realized that she should have declined the offer.

* * *

 _She was in a stark white room. A cube, roughly twelve feet by twelve feet. No visible entrances or exits, just flat, white walls. Her boots echoed in the empty space as she walked around, running her fingers along the surface. It was smooth beneath the calloused skin of her fingers._

 _The fingers that had pulled the triggers of so many guns and ended so many lives. Natasha stopped in her tracks and pulled her hand back from the wall. Along the lines where her fingers had dragged across the white were streaked of dark red blood. It dripped down the white in long lines, like a painting._

 _She stepped into the center of the room, trying to calm herself down. Looking down at the floor, there was more blood in the shape of her bootprints. It dripped down her fingers, coming from wounds that she did not have. The blood splashed into droplets on the white ground, splattering as it fell. She stood openmouthed in horror as the ceiling began to drip more down the walls, until there was almost no white left. It began to pool around her boots, hot and rising until it was up to her knees._

 _Natasha spun around time and time again, looking for a way out, but there was none. The blood had risen to her hips by the time she stopped looking for an exit._

 _None of her weapons were on her belt. She was helpless, trapped in a giant box that was slowly filling with blood. Then it hit her. If the blood didn't stop, she would drown in it._

 _In under a minute, it was up to her shoulders. She pushed against it to the walls, which were now crimson with the sticky liquid. It clung to her catsuit and began to weigh her down as her fingers struggled to find any kind of crack that would signify an exit._ _"Help!" she yelled, banging on the wall. "Can anybody hear me?" There was no response and soon the blood touched her chin._

 _Then it covered her lips. Sputtering to get the hot substance out of her mouth, Natasha kicked upwards and began trying to stay afloat. But soon even that didn't do anything; it was simply rising too fast._

 _"_ _Help!" she screamed. Blood rushed in, coppery against her dry tongue. She coughed to rid it from her body, but the taste was too strong and she fought down the sick feeling that rose in her throat. Never had she been one to call out for help, to ask for assistance. But if anyone could save her from drowning in a room full of blood, she would gladly take their help._

 _Now she was pressed against the ceiling, struggling for air. Just as it rose above her head, she took a deep breath and went under. She didn't dare to open her eyes. To conserve oxygen, she simply floated. When her lungs began to burn and bubbles began to escape from her chest, she kept herself under control. When she became dizzy and began to lose focus, she held on. It wasn_ _'t until the fire in her body became too much and she coughed air out, allowing blood in, that she began to panic._

 _And then everything went darker than it had been before._

 _But light pierced through her eyes as she opened them. Coughs wracked her body as if to rid them of the horrible substance, but she was surprised to find them dry. She was no longer in the horrid red box._

 _No, that nightmare would have been preferable to what was in front of her. A dark room, with one yellow light overhead. A chair sat under it, a woman bound to it with chains and ropes. The walls of the room were made of dark metal. No light entered or exited without the door being opened or closed, locked from the outside. The floor under her feet was cold and unforgiving concrete. She knew this room all too well. The familiar weight of a gun was placed into Natasha_ _'s hands._

 _She turned around to see the headmistress give her a nod before walking out the door and locking it. Natasha would not be coming out until what she was tasked to do was done._

 _Mechanically, she checked for bullets in the weapon and clicked the magazine back into place. her eyes never met the woman_ _'s. Or girl's, rather. She was only sixteen, Natasha a few months younger._

 _"_ _Are you really going to do this?" The girl's words echoed in the metal room, with no twinge of fear in her voice._

 _"_ _You betrayed us to the Americans by not completing your mission. You know the price you have to pay." Natasha's words were just as smooth as she cocked the gun back._

 _"_ _And you will be the one to pull the trigger? The Red Room's favorite, killing those who disobey. I am not afraid of you."_

 _"_ _I don't expect you to be, it's how you were trained."_

 _"_ _And, how you were raised," the girl spat back._

 _"_ _It is also how you will die," Natasha responded, aiming the gun at the girl's head._

 _"_ _Go on, do it. This one kill, your what, hundredth and something, will put you at the all time top spot for most kills in two years. Congratulations."_

 _"_ _You're only bitter because I will be the one taking the title from you, Alyona."_

 _"_ _No, Natasha. I'm bitter because you're taking the title for murdering your friend."_

 _A loud bang resounded, the kick back, and the smoking gun were the only things Natasha registered. She left the room with cold eyes, not even looking at Alyona_ _'s slumped form still tied to the chair._

* * *

Natasha felt the touch on fingertips on her arm the second that her eyes flashed open and a scream died in her throat.

They were here to get her, to take her back to that place. She withdrew the gun from her holster and flipped the man onto the bed, pointing the weapon into the back of his skull. The blonde hair on his head was pushed black against the cool metal of the barrel.

"You will never get me back," she hissed to the man, whose hands were raised, adorned in brown gloves. Her arms stung from the sudden exertion, but she would not let him see her pain.

"Natasha," he whispered. The voice was familiar, but it wouldn't reach her. He was here to bring her back to the Red Room, and that was all that mattered. It was either she be taken back, or someone came to take him back in a body bag. She knew what he choice was.

"Don't say my name." She pulled the hammer on the gun.

 _Click._

He started to turn around, blue eyes a mix of confusion and worry. "You won't be able to say it again anyways."

 _Bang._

* * *

 **Part two will be posted tomorrow. Then Steve's chapter I will try to post Tuesday, seeing as I start school on Wednesday.**


	6. Natasha Part 2

**Part two! Sorry for the cliffhanger, hehe, but I am not an extremely mean writer, and I would never make Natasha be directly responsible for Steve's death. I do ship Romanogers, so this chapter kinda turns into that.**

 **Alright, almost done with this 5+1! Thank you all for your reviews, favorites, and follows, I can't even say how much they all mean to me! I will try my best to post Steve's chapter tomorrow, but if I don't, then it will be posted on the weekend since I have to start school on the 19th. As always, I hope that you all enjoy and thanks for reading!**

 **I don't own Marvel. I keep telling myself this so I assume everyone else knows too…**

* * *

Before she had time to react, the gun had gone off and the man was no longer laying on the bed in front of her. He had flipped upwards and to the side, narrowly dodging the metal bullet, which had imbedded itself in the wall.

He stood next to her, hands up above his head, face a picture of sadness and confusion. "Natasha, this isn't you. I'm not the Red Room."

"Don't lie to me!" she yelled, leveling the gun back at him. In one swift motion, he twisted in and brought her arm to him, bending it upwards against her wounds so that the gun fell out of her grasp. He emptied the magazine and tossed it onto the floor.

"I'm Steve, Natasha. Steve Rogers. Your friend. You had a nightmare and were screaming for help in your sleep."

This time, she withdrew a knife from its sheath. "And why should I believe an agent trained in deception?"

"You shouldn't, short and simple," was his response. "But I trust you, an agent trained in deception. I trust you with my life, Natasha, and you know that."

"Stop talking," she whispered. Her eyes were still glazed over as she tried to figure out why the Red Room agent was conversing with her rather than killing her.

"You saved people, Natasha. Thousands of innocent lives. In New York, during the fall of SHIELD, and countless missions in-between." There was no mistaking the sheer sincerity in his voice, a tone that made her genuinely confused.

"I am the Black Widow. You of all people should know how many have fallen at my feet," Natasha replied. Her voice was low and quiet, trying to sound menacing, but it shook as she tried to figure out exactly what the hell was going on.

"I don't care about your past, Natasha. You did some bad stuff, but so has everyone. But you redeemed yourself. You have saved me and the rest of our team time and time again, and any of us would give our lives to protect you. Even Stark. I'm not just your teammate and roommate, Natasha. I'm also your friend. No matter what you did, or do, I will always be there by your side."

Something cracked and Natasha began to feel the haze of the dream starting to lift away. The man that looked so much like a Red Room agent now looked like Steve Rogers. She looked from the hole in the wall to Steve, and to the knife in her hand. Steve was looking at her warily, his blue eyes scanning her over.

She threw the weapon onto the floor and ducked her head. Natasha wrung her hands together to stop them from shaking as the realization of the bullet hole and the gun on the floor went through her mind. "I shot you," she whispered, mainly to herself, but just audible enough so that Steve could hear.

"At me, it didn't hit. You didn't know what you were doing. I'm fine, Natasha, really," Steve assured her.

"I could have killed you. I was convinced that if I didn't, you would take me…"

"Take you where?" he pressed gently, walking closer to her so that his hands could wrap carefully around her arms.

"Back to the Red Room," was her response as she let out a long breath before continuing. "They tried to get me back, I don't know how many times. I always resisted. But every single time, it got harder and harder to keep them at bay. They just served as a reminder to the red in my ledger."

They lapsed into silence before Natasha started talking again. "No one can know about this. Only Clint knows, and I swore him so secrecy."

"With a knife, I'm assuming," Steve responded, trying for a lighthearted joke.

"Pretty much."

"Natasha, it's okay to ask for help. No one should have to go through these kinds of nightmares alone," he said quietly, his eyes evening out with hers as she looked up at him.

She sat down on the bed and he followed, the mattress falling at their combined weight. "No, Steve, it's not. No one in the Tower really knows my past, save for Barton, even with all of the files floating around."

"That's because they all trust you Natasha. They don't care what you did in the past. All that matters to them, our team, is that you're there helping them in the moment. You've saved all of our asses time and time again."

"Language," she quipped. "For the symbol of patriotism and all things good, I'm surprised to find that you say bad words." Her eyes had lost that sad stare and were full of their normal strength and sarcastic-ness again. He found it to be the most relieving thing he had seen all day.

"There's the Natasha I know. It's okay to have a weakness. You just need friends in order to make that weakness disappear."

"Are you saying that Captain America has a weakness?" she asked, a small smile playing on her lips.

"I've been told it's damsels in distress, but I don't believe it."

"Don't evade my question, Steve."

"I'm not evading," he said, putting his hands up in a mock surrendering stance. "Maybe it's just that I don't know."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Always were, probably always will be. You should get some sleep, Natasha. We still have to reach extraction tomorrow."

She nodded, blinking her eyes a few times to rid them of the sleep that must have been evident. Laying down, she saw that the sheets were spotted with blood. But only spotted. Nothing she would drown in.

Steve stood up from the bed to take his spot on the floor, but she reached out a hand and grabbed his arm. He looked back at her with soft eyes, his blonde hair shining slightly in the dim light that came in through the window. Knowing what she meant when she slid over, he gingerly climbed into bed alongside her.

She rested her head on his chest and sighed. He wrapped a large arm around her shoulders and pulled her in closer to him. The silver star beneath her temple was cool, aiding in the blush that rose in her cheeks. She still tried to get the image of the bullet in the wall out of her head. It was very possible that the bullet could have imbedded itself somewhere else. And what would have happened if it did?

Would she have snapped out of it and tried to help him? Or would she have run and never looked back until it was too late?"

"I'm sorry," she murmured, feeling the calming way that his chest rose and fell beneath her her head.

"Don't you dare apologize. You weren't yourself and you know it. I'm fine, you're fine. We'll fly out of here tomorrow and go back to the Tower and try to instill order to the chaos that has most likely taken over. Okay?"

She nodded slightly in response.

"Good night, Natasha," he whispered, planting a soft kiss on top of her head.

"Night, soldier."

She was convinced that there would be no more drowning that night. With the hole in the wall and the nightmare forgotten, her breathing lapsed into a steady rhythm. Even if she did find herself drowning in the middle of the night, or holding a gun to someone's head, she now knew that Steve would always be there to throw her a life preserver and bring her back up to the surface.

The soldier and the spy fell asleep to the sound of each others heartbeats.


	7. Steve

**Final chapter! This one is a lot longer, but I feel like I needed everything in here, and I didn't want to split into two chapters like I did for Natasha's. Steve's nightmares are not exactly nightmares, more terrible flashbacks. I want to thank everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, and favorited this story. You guys all mean a lot and I have loved reading everything that you have said :) Without further ado, here is Steve's chapter.**

 **I listened to Rob Thomas' "Pieces" off of his new album, "The Great Unknown" while writing this chapter, in case anyone wanted to listen to it as well.**

 **I don't own Marvel, and if I did, the Civil War trailer would be out already.**

 **+1 Steve**

* * *

He knew he shouldn't have taken the mission in Greenland. A small base, nothing that the team couldn't handle without him. But he was the Captain, and it was his job to keep them safe. So he charged through the snow and tried to ignore the icy flakes that clung to his uniform. The frigid wind bit through the tough fabric like knives, sucking the air from his lungs.

Instead of the cold, he focused on the objective at hand. They got rid of the enemy base in just under three hours, relatively quick for a takeover mission. At the end, they all clambered back into the Quinjet, smiles on their faces from victory. The jet shuddered as it took off and Steve tried to ignore it.

He was still cold. Looking down at his fingertips that wouldn't stop shaking, he shook his head and tucked them under his legs to try and warm them up. But it didn't help. They still felt raw and icy, even though they were warm and pink. There was nothing that could save him from the ice that seemed to be clawing its way up to his heart.

But he pushed it all down when he saw his teammates giving him worried glances. He was the captain, and they didn't need to know what demons he had. He didn't want to burden them with his coldness, as if they might catch frostbite from him. Steve was sitting in the corner of the Quinjet, his shield off to the side, trying not to shake.

In a minute, Natasha came over to him with a blanket. "Here," she said, handing it to him.

"I'm fine," Steve replied, waving his hand at the blanket. Surely Clint or Bruce could use it more; they were outside in the wind the entire attack.

But Natasha didn't take no for an answer. She unfolded the blanket and wrapped it behind Steve's back and around his front, holding it for a second so that it would stay. He looked up at her with thanks in his eyes, trying not to shake, not to yawn, not to show any signs of weakness. "You okay, Steve?" Her eyes were set to his and he shook his head slowly.

"I'm good, Nat. You guys should get some rest. It'll be a few hours before we get back to base."

She nodded and patted his shoulder a few times before standing up. "You get some sleep too, Steve."

Natasha walked back to the front of the jet to talk to Tony, leaving Steve huddled with the blanket in the corner. Even amid the cold and the shaking and the flashes of memories, he somehow managed to fall asleep.

In the Quinjet. With the rest of his teammates on board.

As a kid, the cold got to him in a way that the bullies never could. It tore him apart from the inside out. Year after year it left him bedridden and shaking, trying desperately to survive another bout of whatever sickness had decided to pay him a visit. There weren't enough blankets in the house to get rid of the chill that sat in his bones.

However, every day at exactly three o' clock, when Bucky got off work, he would hear a knock at the door. After a minute of coughing trying to get out the words 'it's open', the door would open and Bucky would be standing in the threshold. Snow hung off of his scarf and hat, clinging to his jacket and shoes, which he took off at the door.

"How you doing, Stevie?" he asked, coming to his bedside.

"Same as every year," Steve wheezed back. Every breath in was like knives and every single one out was like fire. Bucky pressed a hand to Steve's forehead for a moment and took it away.

"You're burning up."

"No, I'm freezing," Steve replied with a small smile on his face. By the way Bucky looked at him, he knew that he wasn't doing well.

"Either way, I am getting you some food." He stood up and began to exit the room.

"I don't have anything here," Steve tried, but his friend was already out the door. Of course he knew; Steve hadn't left the house in nearly two weeks. What he wouldn't give to feel the sun on his face, even through the clouds.

Bucky came back in an hour with soup that he had made at his house down the street, with some chicken in it. He poured some into a bowl and helped Steve sit up, handing him the warm broth and a spoon.

"I'm not eating until you do," Steve said, feeling the steam as it rose up and touched his face.

"You start, I'll catch up," Bucky replied from the kitchen. When he came back into the room and sat down at the chair by Steve's bed, it was only then that he started to eat.

Even during the war, they made it a small tradition to find some warm food after a cold mission. Any place that had warm soup or bread was fine for them. As long as it was different than the snow that they had been fighting in. It would be shared with laughter and jokes, not thoughts about the fight that they had just endured. Even though the war itself was something that Steve would rather not remember as vividly, some of those conversations with Bucky he would give the world to never forget.

Then came the day. With the icy wind and the black smoke pumping out of a black train in the white mountains, Steve lost his brother. Mere inches separated them, and Steve hadn't been able to go the distance.

If he had killed the operative in the suit, Bucky wouldn't have picked up the shield. Then he would not have been hanging helplessly off the side of a train.

If he had been quicker and stretched farther, the last memory of his friend would have not been falling to his death, but probably something happier. He would never have feared the cold. He would have gotten sleep at least once a week.

But he didn't do any of those things. Because he didn't save his friend.

When he got back to camp, solemn and quiet, the fires had been put out due to the rain. Everyone was served cold beans and rice. Cold. So much like the snow that had claimed his friend.

Like the frigidness that would claim him less than a month later.

Steve could hear Bucky in his ear, telling him to eat the food, reminding him that he would need it in order to keep fighting. But Steve wouldn't eat without Bucky. It was too ingrained in his soul.

But eventually he did, the bland food tasteless against his tongue. It tore him apart on the inside.

After that, he went back to his tent to find Bucky's bed made up. His belongings already gone, the bedsheets pulled tight over the cot. On the small table in-between the cots, lay Bucky's dog tags.

Steve picked them up gingerly, as if they would fragment or shatter at his touch. They clinked together with the sound of pressed metal as he sat down on his bunk and looked to the empty one next to him.. Tears burned his eyes and threatened to spill over.

Bucky wouldn't want him to cry, he knew that. But he was broken on the inside, and he knew no one to share the burden with. Looking up from the tags, he noticed a letter with the word 'Steve' written in Bucky's unmistakable writing.

He picked it up, turning the envelope over before opening it. The envelope had weight to it, and he figured out why when he pulled out photos. Seven in all, taken in all different years. One was of Steve, huddled in a blanket before the transformation, sleeping with his messy blonde hair in his face. There were a few more of Steve, the last one being him smiling in the Captain America uniform. Then there were two of the Howling Commandos, decked out in their war gear. One was serious, all of them had their mouths in straight lines, eyes dead set on the camera. But the next one was all of them in the middle of laughing, clapping each other on the back.

The last photo was one of himself and Bucky. Bucky had his hand on Steve's shoulder. They were both smiling at the camera, eyes alive and happy even in the midst of war.

Steve smiled as tears dropped onto the photo, eyes looking it over. They fell onto words written on the bottom of the picture. _'Til the end of the line, Steve._ Was what it said.

In the morning when Peggy came to get him for a mission, she found him still staring blankly at the picture.

He was broken, and he knew it. Every single night, he either never slept at all or woke up shaking from the cold that was not present. Every night the gunfire and the wind and the screams would echo endlessly in his ears. Nothing helped him. But during the day, he pushed it all down because he had a job to do. He had people to protect. And he would be damned if he let anyone else die because he had not been present or fast enough.

"Steve!" the sound of his name being shouted was what finally woke him up. He looked around wildly, ready to fight whatever had attacked. Instead he found his team scattered around him. Natasha was seated on the ground next to him, while everyone else was standing.

Tremors shook his body as his eyes clenched to try and rid himself of the nightmare. "Yeah?" he whispered, voice raw. He had been screaming in his sleep, he realized. The team all had ruffled hair and sleepy eyes. He had woken them all up. A boulder of guilt settled on his chest, making it hard for him to breathe.

"Steve, you were screaming for Bucky in your sleep," Natasha said softly to him. Her voice was both caring and worried, so unlike what he usually heard from her.

"Just a small nightmare, I'm good. You should all go back to sleep," was his reply. He refused to be the reason they were all tired the next day and had stayed up all night.

"Steve, you are not okay. There is no sense in lying about it," Clint piped up. "When was the last time you slept through the night? You look like you got punched in the eyes multiple times."

Steve sat up slowly and tried to brush it off. He couldn't remember the last time he slept through the night solidly. "Guys, it's no big deal, seriously. We have a long day of reports tomorrow."

Tony sighed and spoke up from his place next to Clint. "Stop evading it."

"I don't remember," Steve said frankly, getting slightly annoyed. But it was only the tiredness talking, and the entire team knew it.

"Steve, not sleeping isn't healthy, and you know it." That time it was Bruce.

"Five weeks," Steve sighed under his breath. "Four days. Last time I slept through the night was after the mission in Bangladesh."

"Jesus," Clint whispered. A silence set over the team, blanketing them as the Quinjet rumbled through the air.

"How long have you been dealing with these demons?" Thor piped up, breaking the silence.

Steve took a long sigh and trained his eyes on the floor. He knew exactly what they would all say, but he spoke the truth anyways. "Before I went into the ice. I could handle them in the war; Bucky helped, but then I lost him. Because I wasn't fast enough. I kept fighting, then the plane went down. I lost everyone. I don't do well in the cold. It-it triggers flashbacks. Snow, ice, all of it. Reminds me of the crash. Reminds me of all of the times I almost, should have, died growing up. All of my failures, the men that I let down. I am the sole reason that Bucky didn't make it back."

"Steve, why didn't you tell us?" Natasha asked, running a hand soothingly through his hair.

"I'm the Captain. I can't show weakness. My demons are mine, and it's not right for me to bleed onto people for the mistakes I made."

"To hell with that idea man!" Clint said, turning Steve's attention to him. "You're just a guy, a kid really, not even thirty yet. And look at everything you've been through. We are your team, your friends, and your family. It's okay to show weakness, we don't judge. You helped me out a few weeks ago."

"And me just last week." The entire team sounded off on all of the times that Steve had helped them with their nightmares and demons. The conversation of voices lasted almost a full minute,

"Look, Spangles, you helped all of us. It isn't right for us to never help you back. We can tell when you don't get sleep, you aren't too good at hiding it. But we all thought you had a handle on it. You instead so much that you were okay, that we all started to believe it. We were stupid for not being able to see through it." Tony's words made everybody nod in agreement.

"You can trust us, Steve. You don't have to say what's wrong, or what you saw, but just say something. We will always be there for you. Everyone needs a shoulder every once and a while," Bruce replied.

Steve gave a small smile. He could feel the ice starting to melt away from his bones. He had a family that cared for him, although they didn't always show it. "Thanks, guys."

"We will always be there for you, no matter what. On or off the battlefield," Clint ended. "Now, get some sleep, old man." He chuckled and walked back to the pilot's seat of the Quinjet. The other members departed to their spaces on the jet, offering Steve comforting smiles as they went. Natasha, however, stayed at his side.

"Nat, go get some rest."

Natasha shook her head, red curls shaking as she did so. "I'm good here. I won't sleep until you do." Her warm lithe frame curled up under his arm, which he wrapped around her. He then spread the blanket over both of them and leaned his head back onto the cool metal wall. "No more nightmares, okay? I'm right here beside you, remember that."

Her warmth seeped into him, and he felt better than he had in a long while. Steve nodded slowly, closing his eyes from exhaustion.

"You aren't the reason he fell, Steve, you know that. We will find Bucky again. We will bring him back," were the words that soothed him into sleep.

When the Quinjet landed two hours later, Steve and Natasha were laying against each other in the corner of the jet.

"Should we open the landing platform?" Bruce asked, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

Clint was eyeing the soldier and the spy, smirking from ear to ear. "Nah. We can sleep here for the night. I wouldn't have the heart to wake them. Steve needs his sleep."

Everyone nodded in silent agreement. Tony reached over to grab his phone and took a quick picture. However, the sound was still on the the phone made a camera shutter noise.

"Delete it, Stark," came Natasha's tired voice from the corner. "I may be half asleep but I can still break every single bone in your body."

The picture was deleted from his phone ten seconds later, but not before he silently sent it to Clint, who grinned upon seeing the sleeping Avengers frozen in the image.

* * *

 **I have some ideas for another 5+1 story, since I enjoyed writing this one so much, so there may be another one on the way. If anyone has any requests or ideas, feel free to either leave them in a review or PM me. You all have been wonderful, thanks :)**


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